The Black Tower — The Platform
Loren, flung through the fissure by Quinn's casual gesture, tumbled onto the cold platform, disoriented and aching. Ignoring the pain, he scrambled on hands and knees toward the rapidly shrinking pale fissure, stretching out a hand, focusing his mind with desperate intensity—trying to reopen it, to go back, to save Erika.
"He'll die."
The words squeezed from Loren's throat were almost inaudible, even to himself. He didn't know whether they were meant for Quinn, or merely to confirm a fact solidifying before him.
"Ghh—!"Loren slammed his fist against the now-smooth, icy tower wall, despair cracking his nails until they bled—unnoticed. He whirled around, bloodshot eyes locking onto the far side of the platform, where Quinn leaned against the railing.
Quinn did not respond.
He stood at the platform's edge, looking down as he lit a cigarette. The flame flared briefly between his fingers before being swallowed by the gloom. Smoke rose slowly, coiling through the air at the tower's peak like a stretch of time that was permitted to exist—and yet entirely ignored.
Loren staggered, his shoulder striking the cold wall. He raised a hand, then let it fall. It trembled too violently to even clench into a fist.
"You knew what was down there…"His voice was hoarse, the final syllables scattering uncontrollably."You madman!"
Quinn still didn't look at him.
The cigarette burned down to its end. He took one last drag, holding it far longer than necessary—long enough that Loren thought he'd forgotten anyone else was there.
Then the smoke was released, slow and deliberate.
Quinn shook his head. The motion was slight—less a denial, more a confirmation of something long decided.
He stubbed out the cigarette, turned, and raised a hand.
The air parted without a sound.Another fissure unfolded, its interior churning with the same cold, pale luminescence.
Quinn stepped into it and vanished. The fissure sealed behind him as though it had never existed.
Silence reclaimed everything.
Loren stood there for several seconds before realizing he'd been holding his breath. Air flooded back into his lungs, bringing no relief—only a heavier weight in his chest.
He slid down slowly to the floor.
Not because his legs had given out—but because he suddenly understood that standing served no purpose anymore.
Erika was on the other side.
Alone.
Facing that thing.
The thought settled in Loren's gut like a slab of ice, making him gag. He lowered his head, fingers digging deep into his palms, yet feeling no pain.
If Erika dies—
The thought barely surfaced before he sucked in a sharp breath and crushed it down.
Don't think.
He couldn't afford to break here.
He began regulating his breathing. Every inhale burned. Every exhale felt like letting something slip away. Still, he repeated the cycle—again and again.
Not because he believed in miracles.But because if he did nothing, then whether Erika lived or died would no longer have anything to do with him.
And that was more unbearable than death itself.
Meditation Protocol
When Loren settled into a cross-legged position, his movements were almost mechanically precise.
Spine straight. Shoulders relaxed. Chin slightly tucked.The starting posture of basic Sanctum meditation.
He ignored the aches spread throughout his body, categorizing them as noise, temporarily filtering them out of conscious awareness.
Eyes closed.
Darkness swallowed his vision. His breath hitched instinctively—then he forced it to slow.
Inhale — four counts.Hold — one.Exhale — six.
The first cycle failed.
Air caught in his chest, impossible to fully release. His heartbeat surged out of control, its rhythm completely detached from trained parameters. He abandoned the cycle immediately and restarted.
Second cycle.
Inhale—The lingering scent of rust and dust on the platform invaded his nostrils. His breath faltered, barely perceptible. He frowned but did not open his eyes.
"Irrelevant data."He logged the judgment internally.
Third cycle.
The rhythm finally aligned—barely. His breathing lengthened; his pulse slowed. The tension in his body began to ease, as though something long drained was slowly refilling.
Then—
Erika's face intruded into his consciousness.
Not a complete image. Just a fragment: a figure cornered by spinning blades in dim light.
Loren's breathing shattered.
He suppressed the image ruthlessly, tearing it from his thoughts with near violence.
"Not now.""Not useful for recovery."
He didn't allow himself to pause.
—Mental focus.
He directed all his attention to the back of his right hand. There should have been residual warmth from the temporary authority—some faint echo, enough to serve as a point of reconnection.
Nothing.
No light.No heat.No response.
Loren's brow tightened slightly, eyes still closed.
"Authority depleted.""Within expected parameters."
He adjusted at once, shifting focus toward sensing the Tower's feedback—a contingency protocol, used when formal authority failed, meant to detect interference or anomalous fluctuations.
—No response.
The Tower was utterly silent, as though it had severed all connection with him.
His breath faltered again, briefly, but he forced it steady and continued the process, even as each step grew more taxing.
Repeat.Again.
Time lost meaning.
He didn't know how long he sat—only that the trembling in his body was suppressed, while his focus grew harder to maintain. Each attempt at perception was invaded by images that shouldn't be there—
Shattered metal.Exploding sparks.
Loren's fingers tightened slowly against his knees.
He didn't analyze them. Treated them as interference. Ignored them.
Then—just as he was about to abandon the attempt yet again—
The air… shivered.
So faint it could have been a hallucination.
Loren's breath froze.
He opened his eyes.
The Fissure
The disturbance was real—a ripple like the faintest breeze across still water.
On the otherwise seamless, smooth, cold wall of the platform, at roughly head height, a tiny, distorted speck of pale light struggled into existence.
It lacked Quinn's effortless stability. This was light forcing its way through under immense pressure, or from an unfathomable distance. Each attempt to expand warped the surrounding space, producing a faint hum. The glow flickered wildly, on the verge of extinction.
Loren's heart clenched, nearly stopping.
Joy surged.
It was Erika. It had to be.
Whatever he'd done—even this thread of a passage was a miracle. The realization surged through him like a stimulant, flooding his nearly depleted body with urgency.
He focused all his will, trying to reinforce the fragile fissure—imagining it stabilizing, widening, imagining Erika needing help on the other side.
Nothing responded.
No matter how he strained, even when he reached out in a futile attempt to pry the illusory glow wider, it did nothing.
Helplessness returned—this time laced with searing hope.
He could only stare at the light, holding his breath, guarding it like a candle guttering in the wind—silently screaming, praying.
Time crawled.Each second felt like a century.
The fissure expanded with agonizing slowness—writhing, contracting, then stubbornly pushing forward again, like the final convulsions of life at its limit.
From a speck,to the size of a fist,to barely large enough for a head to pass—
The entire process was riddled with violent flickers and tremors, threatening collapse at every moment. Loren didn't dare blink.
Finally—after what felt like an eternity—the fissure widened to just enough for a person to barely squeeze through. Its edges still thrashed violently, profoundly unstable.
Now.
Loren lunged forward. His body pitched ahead, one foot lifting, ready to plunge without hesitation into the dangerous, unknown fissure.
Then—
At the final instant, before his foot touched the warped light, a soul-deep chill seized him like an invisible shackle.
What if…
The word struck like venom.
What if he couldn't hold on?
What if the fissure wasn't a sign of survival—but a death echo?What if he crossed over only to find silence—and a body torn apart beneath the shattered golem's blades?
What if the golem was still there—and he was stepping into the same doomed fight?
Even if the chance was one in ten thousand—
His foot hovered, trembling.
Ahead, the fissure pulsed erratically—urging him on, or warning him away.Behind him lay the empty but temporarily safe platform, the suffocating yet familiar silence Quinn had left behind.
Fear.Hesitation.Calculation.
All of it surged—then was crushed by something more primal.
He couldn't leave him there alone.Alive or dead.
He didn't even realize he was breathing.
His foot descended.
His body—along with the unspoken cry Erika, hold on—was swallowed by the pale, twisted, uncertain light.
The fissure convulsed violently after his entry, flickered as if expending its last strength, then rapidly contracted and vanished from the tower wall without a trace.
The platform returned to absolute silence and emptiness—as though no one had ever stood there,as though that brief struggle between hope and despair had never occurred.
Only the faint trace of smoke lingered in the air—and something colder than smoke—
the echo of fate's dice, already cast and rolling.